by J. Orlin Grabbe

You say you've made a lot of investments in nuclear facilities
and you can't get a proper return on your money? You say those damned
national borders get in the way? You're asking yourself what's a fellow
have to do to get ahead in this world? I know how you feel.

After all, you're just trying to run your business, aren't you?
Israel needs nuclear materials? You'll sell to them. Iraq needs equipment?
You'll sell to them. Iran wants some nose cones? They're on their way!
Pakistan lusts after tungsten carbide machine tools? Well, just one
question: They got cash? You know that's the way the world works. Money
plays in this pool parlor.

That Attorney General now. Well, you know she's cool. She's weak,
maybe vulnerable to blackmail, but--more importantly--she did all those
little things with Wackenhut down in Florida. Hey, they guard the nuclear
stuff! It keeps those paychecks coming in, you know. No way she's going to
mess with your little business.

The President, now, that's a different problem. What's got in to
him? Why's he so wishy-washy considering he used to work for THE MAN?
You know he got recruited over there in London, and then did himself
proud on that little field trip he took over to Moscow, where he brought
back that document from that opposition politician--you hear about that?
And then look what a life he's had, being Governor of Arkansas, awash in all
that drug money, and doing all those women! Lordie, that fellow could even
be father of his country, like George Washington! And hell, his teeth ain't
even wooden. (You know how some people feel about splinters.)

Of course, he ain't in to money. That's her. He just wants two
things: power and beautiful wimmin. If he's got power, if he's in charge,
then he knows he can get the travel budget he needs to take a little trip
to meet the woman of his choice! After that, he don't care, so he gives the
money away to all his friends, who are so damned pleased they take care of
him when he needs it, if he gets into trouble over fornication gone awry.

You don't mind. You never messed with his little import business.
No sir, not with THE MAN in there too. But why can't he let you sell your
supplies to help out the nuke-impaired countries of the world in the manner
you see fit? Hey, you're both running crack operations here!

Well, on to other problems. Money, money, money. You've had a few
difficulties, but nothing a smart feller like you can't get around. You
used to bring it in through BCCI and Banca Nazionale del Lavoro in Atlanta,
and run it through the Mellon payroll account, and back out through
Toronto Dominion, and it got paid to Westinghouse and Kennametal and the
wacky hutterites, and Carlos Cardoen was always there to give a hand,
and . . . (Say did you read that little story that feller Jim Norman
wrote about Carlos Cardoen and Will Harris in Forbes on Jan 30, 1995?
Damned if that Forbes ain't a fine magazine!)

But there's a little problem with Mellon these days. There's that
pending RICO suit which may blow up the whole laundry thang. Well, don't
worry about it none. Worrin' never solved no problems.

My recommendation? You know I don't like to offer advice. But
if I was you, I would take me a little vacation over to Europe while this
thang blows over. It'll give you some time to think about covering your
assets.

Capital's mobile, ain't it? Well, why don't you give some thought
to moving your bank right out of Pittsburg and over to some place like
Boston? How does that strike you? And in the meanwhile, keep your boys
hammering away at that Mena, Arkansas, thang, because we can't, repeat,
CAN NOT, have anyone taking a gander what's been going on in Pittsburg.
That's for sure. Or your name ain't Scarf . . . Shee.... Damned if this
thang don't have me so riled up I can't even remember your name right.